62 - Her Everything

There was a stillness in the warm air that should bring some measure of peace, but Delaney’s mood was as ominous as the dark clouds that sat firmly over her head – both literally and figuratively.  The one she’d been dodging all day finally recruited some friends, and together they cast their gray pall not only over Delaney but the entirety of St. Michael’s Cemetery. 

The eclectic assortment of headstones didn’t cast the typical six o’clock shadows as she trudged across the lawn.  They were as dull and somber as her own mood. 

She probably shouldn’t have even come here in this frame of mind.  It was hard enough to make the trip when Violet and Poppy were her only source of emotional drama.  With boiling anger toward Katya and frustration toward Jon, especially since his refusal to pick up her call, Delaney was edgy, emotional and feeling like a big ball of yuck. 

Not the best mindset for visiting her dead daughter’s grave, but being a yuck ball wasn’t a free pass to avoid the chore.

This was the lone day each year that Delaney wouldn’t accept her own excuses.  All the usual holidays could come and go without nagging her to make the trek across a lawn laden with floral homages and flags.  Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, Halloween and Thanksgiving didn’t compel her to come here and check up on things, but May thirty-first…

As the anniversary of both Violet’s birth and burial, the date carried a hefty burden of obligation.  

The first year, she shunned that obligation in favor of seeking out Poppy.  She had naively hoped that a year might be enough time for her surviving daughter’s bitter hatred to wane.  When she knocked on that apartment door, however, it was instantly obvious that Delaney had followed a pipe dream to Chicago.  The reception she received was nothing short of loathing and had escalated into unthinkable ugliness.  

That mortifying skeleton lived in the furthest corner of her closet of shame, where she hoped it would disintegrate from lack of attention.  Poppy was the only one who was aware of its existence.  Well, her and the Chicago police.

Needless to say, Delaney hadn’t made the same mistake twice.

The second year, she fully intended to let the date pass without attention, but her family didn’t get the memo.  First Petra called to check up on her.  Then Pearl, followed by Max and both of her parents.  The only one who didn’t call was Marilee, because she spent the day peering over the rim of her reading glasses as Delaney assembled an unhealthy quantity of purple flower arrangements.

Each worried themselves to death that she was going to implode from grief over one or both of her daughters.  Delaney refused to give anyone – including herself – the satisfaction.  She staunchly refused to buckle under what they considered an unbearable burden, so they moved on to critical reminders that she hadn’t been to “see” Violet since the funeral.   

Nothing would appease their overbearing concern but action.  It was either have a mental breakdown or go to the cemetery, so she chose St. Michael’s.  She’d grabbed one of the purple arrangements and the van keys, forcing herself to visit the serene plot of earth where her child was interred.  

It wasn’t the answer to her denial or bottled grief.  It wasn’t a magical panacea that brought serenity to her troubled heart and mind.  It did, however, give her a moment of quiet solitude and relief from everyone's well-meaning nagging. 

Because her family was infuriatingly consistent in their obnoxious displays of concern, she’d been here every birthday since, seeking that same escape.  They’d all called or texted today already, making sure she still planned to come.

So here she was.

It was the only day each year that she trod across this lush grass.  The only day when she took a deep breath and skirted memorials that ranged from a simple red rose to an elaborate grave blanket of fresh lilies.  The only day that she sought the bronze marker at her daughter’s feet. 

VIOLET EVANGELINE

GIANNOPOLOUS-GARDENER

MAY 31, 1994 – MAY 28, 2013

…

The ellipse was because Delaney had been unable to decide on parting words.  Whatever suggestions her parents, Petra and Geoff threw at her were inadequate and immediately dismissed, because a novel would be unable to summarize her daughter’s vitality, zeal and beauty.  It couldn’t be done in thirty characters or less.

A psychologist would probably point out that it was Delaney’s way of not saying goodbye at all, and maybe it was.  She never stuck around long enough to think about it.

Her job here – other than escaping well-meaning family – was to make sure the marker was in good condition, deliver whatever flowers struck her that day, and go home to color her hair something other than its May shade of purple. 

Today’s offering was an diverse array of wildflowers, because their unruliness and refusal to be tamed reminded her of Violet’s wild impulsiveness.

As Delaney stooped to place the disorderly bouquet in the vase built into the grave marker, a cool breeze floated over to ruffle the petals.  Foolish thinking made her wonder if Violet was showing appreciation – or saying hello.   

She’s not saying anything.  She’s dead, Delaney.

Rearranging the blossoms in a different fashion of disarray, Delaney noticed that someone else left a pot of violets.  Her parents didn’t always mention visiting, but considering the date on the calendar, she’d be surprised if they hadn’t.  They were much more faithful about it than she was.   

Leaning forward, she gently dusted grass clippings and leaves from the bronze violets that decorated the tombstone corners.  The gesture took only a moment and completed her usual routine, but another breeze swept through and stole the will to make herself stand and walk away.  Her quick in and out stopover just didn’t feel right this time.

What did feel right was something that wouldn't have dreamed of doing in a million years.

Lowering her denim backside to the grass, she stretched out on one hip next to where the casket might be and laid her hand atop the grass.   

“Hi, baby,” she whispered, feeling only slightly stupid talking to the air.  She didn’t talk to Violet.  She tended to what needed tending while trying not to think about the vibrant young woman lying dormant in the ground.  Then she left.  That was the deal.

She blamed Jon for today being different.  More specifically, she blamed him and Stephanie for rattling the door on stifled memories that made Violet’s absence all the more conspicuous. 

In the quiet of early evening, Delaney could admit that she didn’t want her daughter’s absence to be conspicuous.  She wanted it not to exist. 

The same cool breeze that ruffled the flower petals had the ponytail fluttering around her neck as a pair of ducks flew overhead.  Those birds were the reason Violet was here instead of somewhere else.  She’d held an obsessive fascination with ducks from a very early age, and St. Michael’s pond had them in residence.

It was a silly little thing, but Delaney was as adamant about it as she'd been the grave marker.  When Petra gently suggested the cemetery with their grandparents, it earned a hard no.  Delaney told her, Geoff and anyone who cared to listen that she might not be able to pick out final parting words, but she could make sure her daughter enjoyed the company of ducks. 

Someday, she’d lie in the adjacent plot and enjoy the ducks, too.

“I miss you, Veggie.”

She murmured the endearment long-ago adopted from Violet’s initials while fingering a blade of grass.  A hiccup fluttered behind her breastbone, and Delaney went from playing with individual pieces of grass to petting the fertile blanket of earth.

“So much has changed since you’ve been gone.  Everything, really.  I mean, there’s still Uncle Max & Aunt Pet.  Nana, Granddad & Pearl, too, but that’s about all the sameness.  Mama's life is very different now, but not all of it's bad.”

Any sense of silliness she felt at talking to the air was gone, and the words began to flow without conscious thought.

“You’d love the flower shop.  It’s very cool being part of people’s highs, lows and middles.  Baby arrangements are the most fun.  And weddings.  Funerals – “ She cleared her throat of the lump that rose.  “Those aren’t my favorite, but it’s freeping awesome to take flowers to The Garden performers.  You’d probably do free deliveries for me on those, huh?”

Why hadn’t she ever thought of Violet missing out on that?  Or Poppy for that matter?

Because you pretend they never existed. 

“I, uh…  I met somebody interesting delivering flowers to The Garden a while back.  Remember all that Bon Jovi music I used to make you and your sister listen to?  Well, I got to do flowers for Jon Bon Jovi.  And then... we started dating.” 

She chuffed a sad laugh into the overcast stillness and propped a fist under her head.  “I’m dating Jon Bon Jovi, Veg.  I helped him pick out an apartment and have been furniture shopping for it.  It’s that kind of deal.  I’m upset with him right now, but I still wish you could meet him.  He’s… like nothing I ever expected.  But maybe you already know that.

“Maybe you know a lot of things.  I hope you do.”  She sniffed away the dampness misting her eyes.  “Like how sorry I am.  I understand there was no talking you down from something once you decided to do it.  I even accept that, but I still can’t help but wonder what could’ve been done to keep you from making the choice in the first place.  Should I have you about Daddy and me sooner?  Told you in a different way?  Handcuffed you to the bannister?  All the pointless 'what-ifs' haunt me when I least expect it."

She knew women who talked about how their struggles with childbirth, saying how hard it was to bring a child into this world.  For Delaney, giving life to her daughters was the easy part.  Preserving that life was the hard part that nobody ever warned her about.

Until it was too late.

“Death doesn’t offer second chances, but I hope you know if there was a second chance, I wouldn’t let this happen to you again.  I swear I wouldn’t.”

The words stuck in her throat, so thick that no human could’ve understood them, but Delaney wasn’t talking to a human.  She was talking to an angel – or maybe just herself.  Both understood her emotional monologue just fine.

“There’s one thing I’m positive you know, and I so wish you could find a way to tell me.  What happened at that party to make your sister so angry, Veg?  If I just knew, then maybe I could try to fix it.  The not knowing….  It’s… awful.  So awful.” 

A swipe of her shirt sleeve dried the tears that were now too numerous to be held at bay.

“I honestly don’t believe you would’ve chosen to leave me.  You and me… we would’ve fought it out and been okay, eventually.  Poppy’s always been different, though.   She doesn’t get over stuff like we do.  She holds onto things that cut her bloody, and then cuts everybody else with them, too.”

Another swipe of the sleeve dried her face for a minute, but it was starting to become futile.  Tears were flowing faster than she could wipe them away. 

“Most… most of the time I do okay telling myself that she’s made a choice for her happiness.  That all I can do is respect it.  But… it’s really hard sometimes.  Really hard.  I miss you both so much.  So… so much, even if it doesn’t look like I do.  I just don’t know any other way.  It’s either pretend you were never here or die from the pain.”

The words wouldn’t come anymore, and Delaney dropped a tear-drenched face onto the grass and let the river of grief flow unchecked.  For the first time, she let herself sob like a mother who’d lost her babies. 

Because she was.

She didn’t care that they were nineteen years old at the time.  They were her still her babies, and she missed them every year at the Thanksgiving parade, every time a Harry Potter movie came on television, and every time someone mentioned those stupid sparkling vampires. 

There was a wave of anguish for the willful thoughtlessness that took Violet’s life.  Everyone promised that she’d someday find peace with the death of daughter, and maybe they were right, but there would never be peace when it came to Poppy.  Not unless Delaney found out why her living child held such bitterness.  Why she held such unforgiving blame.  Why she was filled with such hatred. 

Those unanswered questions would always be open wounds and salty tears only made them sting all the more.  It hurt, and today she could admit that.  Today, she wasn’t going to hide it.  Today, she would beg Violet, God, Jesus and anyone else who would listen to give her answers.

She wasn’t likely to get them, but by the time all the bottled anguish was poured onto St. Michael’s lawn, she'd be too tired to care.

“Laney?”

Soft footsteps approached from behind, and she lifted blurry eyes to find Pearl.  Delaney was too overwrought to ask how or why, she just sat up and accepted the fact that her friend was on the ground, too, and folding her tight. 

“Pearl,” she sobbed into a shoulder.  “I love her.  I swear I’m not indifferent.  It just hurts too much.”

“I know, girl,” her friend whispered.  “I know you do.  We all know.”

“Did she know?  As mad as she was, did… did she know I love her?  That I’ve nev… er stopped loving her?”

Slim arms snugged tight.  “Yeah, Lanes.  She does.  Nobody could ever doubt how much you love your girls.  Even them.”

“Poppy.  Poppy doubts.  Pop-py still hates… me.”

“No.”  The two of them rocked back and forth, and the tears that Pearl either shed with Delaney or for her wet both their cheeks.  "She’s messed up, but she doesn’t hate.  You can’t believe that.”

Yes, she could.  The last five years had proven it.  Every unhealed shard of her broken heart pushed through swollen tear ducts as Delaney pitifully mourned the death of one daughter and loss of the other.  They’d been her everything.  Absolute everything.

And now they were gone.